


March, 1989

by Rattlehead_Rose



Series: Snapshots of a Life Well Wasted [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Trans Character, Gen, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking, seth being a shitwad, this is part of a series lmao so ill post em kind of in order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 18:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattlehead_Rose/pseuds/Rattlehead_Rose
Summary: Nasty Surprise.





	March, 1989

**Author's Note:**

> Ages are weird.
> 
> Pickles- born 1973 (almost 16 in this fic)  
> Seth- born 1967 (21 in this fic)
> 
> Another Note-- anytime anyone says "Pickles" in this fic, they're not actually saying it.

[March, 1989]

Pickles paused outside his front door, hand halfway to his pocket to retrieve his house key. Something was off-- the house was never occupied when he got home from school, and yet he could hear something obnoxious coming from the TV in the living room. He racked his brain, trying to come to any conclusion that made sense as to why there was someone in the house at three in the afternoon, but came up with nothing. He hesitated before reaching for the doorknob, stomach knotting when he found it unlocked. He opened it just a crack, just enough to peer in at the sickening sight of his older brother splayed across the couch, staring right back at him. Seth's rattish face split into a grin when their eyes met. "Hey kiddo," He drawled, grating on Pickles' nerves. The redhead pushed the door open the rest of the way but stood resolutely on the other side of the threshold. "What are you doing here?" he asked, fighting the waver out of his voice.

Whatever the reason was, it couldn't be good.

Seth's expression warped into an exaggerated pout as he shifted on the couch to sit up more. "Aw, ain't you happy to see me? Your big brother's in town after so many months away and that's how you greet him?" Pickles scowled, shoving his hands into his pockets to conceal their trembling. There was nothing more revolting than the thought of Seth in their house again. "I'm never happy to see you, Seth. Why are you back?" He asked again, half tempted to step into the house, just to see what would happen. Seth rolled his eyes. "Well, little miss sunshine, if you must know, I'm looking for a job. A real one. Was hoping dad could help me out." The smirk on his face told Pickles everything he needed to know about what Seth was planning, and it wasn't good. "Plus, unlike you, mom and dad are always pleased to see me. Now would you close the door already? You're letting the cold in." Pickles hesitated before stepping inside the house and shutting the door behind him. He didn't bother to take his boots off-- he was pretty certain he wouldn't be staying long. He took the stairs two at a time and ducked into his bedroom, dropping his backpack haphazardly onto his bed before reaching under it an extracting a shoe box. Inside he found his knife, which he pocketed, as well as a flask and a pack of cigarettes and a few other items. Everything seemed in order, which was good. Seth hadn't gone through his room.

He went back downstairs to find Seth blocking the way into the living room. He stopped a couple stairs from the bottom, which gave him a slight height advantage over his brother, which he assumed was a good thing. Probably. Judging by the look on Seth's face, this was about to get very ugly. "Where you going, sis?" He hissed, drawing out the last 's' way longer than necessary. Pickles bit back the 'don't call me sis' that immediately rose in his throat and opted for something safer. "Out with friends." Seth scoffed, eyes not departing from Pickles'. "You don't have friends."

"How the hell would you know?"

"Come on now, we both grew up here. You don't have friends."

"So what? Why do you care?"

"I'm just trying to look out for my little sister, make sure you don't get into any trouble out there, y'know?" There was a lilt to the way he said 'out there' that immediately set Pickles' nerves on edge. His hand closed around his pocket knife. Seth huffed out something approaching a laugh before reaching out and putting a precarious hand on the tall lamp next to the doorway into the kitchen. Pickles froze, watching the hand carefully. "Seth, don't."

"Why not? It's no skin off my ass."

"Why would you even do that?"

"Because you got comfortable. Whoops," Seth grinned maliciously as he gave the lamp a push and watched it shatter on the linoleum, shards of glass skittering to every corner of the kitchen. Pickles' heart sank-- he knew what Seth's game was now. He came back to extort money and make Pickles' life miserable. Yet again.

Seth sighed contentedly, as if the breaking glass was music to him. He smiled to no one but himself and strolled down the hallway. "Well, I'm gonna raid the liquor cabinet. Have fun with that," He nodded to the shattered lamp before disappearing into the lounge. Pickles stared at the remains of the lamp for a few moments, considering his next move. He even thought about cleaning it up for about half a second before deciding against it. He knew he was going to get blamed for this, he didn't want 'and you tried to hide it from us' thrown in his face too. Instead, he turned and climbed the stairs again to return to his room. He pulled open a drawer in his dresser and retrieved his walkman, not even bothering to see what tape was in it before shutting the drawer again and grabbing his backpack. He walked back downstairs, stepping carefully over the lamp before pulling open the door to the basement and descending.

Their basement was nothing special, really-- it was just bare concrete walls and a thinly carpeted floor. The washing machine and dryer sat in the corner, and in the opposite corner was his drum kit. However, Pickles was more interested in what sat between them-- a small nondescript refrigerator. He yanked the door open and surveyed the collection of beer inside. It was his dad's, technically, but that had never stopped neither him nor Seth from skimming a few bottles here and there. He grabbed a couple from the back where they wouldn't be missed and stowed them in his backpack, on opposite sides so they wouldn't clink together when he walked. He shut the fridge and boosted himself on top of it, kicking open the ground-level window and crawling out on his stomach, pulling his backpack through after him. He shut the window quietly and swung his bag onto his back as he walked away from the house and down the street.  
There weren't many places to go in Tomahawk, especially for someone like Pickles, because everyone knew everyone and everyone knew Pickles. He'd been labelled a delinquent since grade school and had stirred up trouble in nearly every corner of the city, if not the state. Rumors spread around of Pickles' picture being posted behind the counters of liquor stores as far off as Green Bay, and Pickles was certainly in no position to confirm nor deny.

In any case, for someone like Pickles, it was hard to hide in Tomahawk.

He found himself at the park before long, and it was mostly deserted so he figured it was as good a place as any. He walked to the back of the park, nearly stuck back in the woods, to a playground secluded from the rest of the property. This was where most of the high schoolers came to deal drugs and suck face, Pickles knew, but it was kind of light out for that so the place was empty. He sank onto one of the swings and retrieved one of the beers, suddenly disappointed in himself that he'd only grabbed two. He had a funny feeling he'd need to be pretty buzzed to survive whatever would be waiting for him when he eventually went home. He cracked the lid on one of the swingset's beams and took a swig before tucking the bottle between his knees and fishing his walkman out of his pocket. He was pleased to find that his Iron Maiden tape was still in it, and put one of the headphones on while leaving the other one off just to keep an ear out for passersby. He rewound the tape before hitting play and taking a couple more gulps from the bottle.

This occurred more often than he'd care to admit.  
~~

He finished the beers inside of an hour but remained stubbornly on the swing until it got dark and he started to shiver. Even then, when he began his walk home it was slow. He wasn't sure what would be waiting for him outside the usual, how Seth would affect the dynamic. What he told them. It got harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other the closer he got to his front door. He was there far too quickly for his liking, and his teeth ached from how tightly his jaw was clenched. He stared at the door for a minute, trying to calm his churning stomach before reaching for the doorknob.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to find that Seth was nowhere to be seen. His parents were sitting on the couch, a predictable distance apart, watching something on the TV. He shut the door and kicked off his boots, placing them neatly on the shoe rack as he waited for one of them to address him. When they did, it was his mother's voice. "Pickles. Please come here." She sounded calm, but there was a shortness to her words that turned Pickles' stomach. He obeyed, walking over to stand next to the couch. His mother looked up at him. She didn't look like she had been crying, but she looked like she might soon enough. "Pickles, that lamp was very expensive. Why did you break it?" Pickles felt like rolling his eyes but refrained. "I didn't break it. Seth did."

"Don't lie to me, Pickles. Seth told us what happened. He said you came home, you were very rude to him, and you broke the lamp on your way out. Why did you do that?"

"It wasn't me, mom. I'm not lying. Seth broke the lamp to mess with me."

"Oh, here we go again," His father interjected, finally pulling his eyes from the TV. His voice was considerably louder than his mother's, and it startled Pickles. "Every time you screw up, you blame it on your brother. 'Seth did this, Seth did that,' I'm sick of it, young lady! It's time you start taking responsibility for your actions!"

"They're not my actions! What did Seth ever do to make you think he was so great, anyway?"  
Whatever his parents said next was lost as they tried to shout over each other, but from what Pickles could tell it boiled down to "Don't talk that way about your brother." His mother stood, which was a surprise, and took him by the ear. Her carefully manicured fingernails dug excruciatingly into his skin, and Pickles bit back a whimper as she scolded him. "You can't keep blaming your problems on Seth forever, missy, it's not gonna work. Your brother's been through a lot! It'd be nice if you showed him some affection for once!" She let go and gave Pickles a push toward the stairs. "Go to your room. You're grounded."

Pickles stormed up the stairs, nursing his burning ear and checking obsessively for drawn blood. He heard music playing quietly from Seth's room as he passed, which confirmed his suspicion-- the snake was staying over. He let his bedroom door slam shut and pressed his back against it, sighing deeply as every ounce of rage drained from his body and left him exhausted. He suddenly felt very unsteady, as if his anxiety was the only thing holding him upright on the way home. He stumbled across the room and sank onto his bed, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the room from spinning. He dropped his bag onto the floor, followed by his jacket, and slumped onto his side with a groan. He groped around under his bed until he found the shoebox again and wormed his hand under the lid to close around his flask. Sadly, it was half empty, but Pickles drained the rest of it anyway, gritting his teeth against the burn of the liquor in his throat. He tried and failed to hold back a yawn, making sure to stow the flask and shove the box back under his bed before rolling over and resigning himself to sleep.


End file.
